


Complex Flavors

by Syntaxeme



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Closeted Character, Cooking, Food Kink, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Radio Host Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Trans Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Transphobia, Virgin Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26414515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaxeme/pseuds/Syntaxeme
Summary: Alastor, a radio show host/serial killer, sees Angel Ragni as nothing but a target. He has some deep-seated grudges toward Angel's family and sees killing him as a perfect way to get revenge. Once he manages to get Angel alone, however, the tables are turned on him in a very unexpected way, and he ends up being the one at Angel's mercy.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 135





	1. Amuse-bouche

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a commission for heartshapedcreaturefromcriptoon on Tumblr! They were super helpful and gave me a very clear story/characterization outline, so most of the credit should really go to them. Thanks so much for commissioning me, and I hope you enjoy the story!

“And welcome back, listeners,” Alastor cooed into his microphone, lowering the volume of the ambient jazz that served as the backdrop for his voice. “For those of you just joining us, I have a special guest in the studio with me today—”

“Oh, Alastor, you’re making me blush,” the ginger-haired woman across the booth from him said with an airy laugh, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

 _Don’t step on my lines, sweetheart._ “I’m only giving credit where credit’s due,” he argued without missing a beat. “With me this afternoon is the lovely Judith Taylor, whom some of you may know from her recent appearance on _Sunday Evening Supper_. Now, Judith, a little bird told me that VOX Studios has reached out to you about hosting a little cooking show of your own. Is that so?”

“Well, I can’t say anything for sure just yet, but that certainly is the rumor. And I’ve heard you’re quite the home cook yourself.” She leaned her elbows against the desk between them, lacing her fingers together to rest her chin on them. Alastor was already aware that her top fit her bust snugly; there was no need for her to emphasize it.

“You’ve heard right, though I’m sure I’m nowhere near your level.” _I’m probably miles above it._ Why he was being forced to interview this nobody was truly beyond him. She was hardly worth the airtime they’d allotted.

“Oh, nonsense. I’m sure you do very well for someone who’s self-taught,” she said, as if it were the most gracious compliment that could be given.

Alastor blinked. “Well, whatever skill I have was passed down to me by my mother,” he pointed out, trying to keep any hint of irritation out of his tone, “so I can’t quite claim to be self-taught.”

“You know what I mean”—his ‘guest’ waved a hand at him dismissively—“someone who isn’t classically trained. No offense to your mother, of course, but I doubt she was a professional chef.” In fact, that was exactly what she was. Before she was forced out of her profession, that is.

He’d been mulling it over for the past hour or so, but that statement helped him to decide. _I’m going to have this woman for dinner._ “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” he laughed, his voice every bit as lighthearted as Judith’s. “Maybe you could give me—and our listeners—some pointers? I don’t like to miss an opportunity to learn something.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Judging by the way she batted her eyes and the come-hither smirk on her lips, he could guess just what sort of pleasure she had in mind when she looked at him. That would only make his plans easier to carry out. While he sat by and listened to her give her mediocre cooking tips, fascination and hunger written all over his face, he was considering exactly what he would serve her and how much he would enjoy making her eat not only his cooking but also her own words.

When finally her segment was finished and they cut to another commercial break, Judith removed her headphones and said with unctuous insincerity, “I hope I didn’t offend you earlier when we talked about your cooking. I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me.”

“Not at all. Though I would like the opportunity to show you what I can do. Are you, by any chance, free for dinner this evening?”

Again, her pink lips curved into a smile. “If I didn’t know any better, Alastor, I might think that was a come-on.”

“Are you so sure you _do_ know better?” he answered, peering at her over the rims of his glasses, playing the game exactly as she wanted. “Of course, I don’t mean to overstep; if you aren’t interested—”

“No, no, I am,” Judith argued quickly.

“Perfect. Then I’ll see you tonight at seven.” He scribbled down directions to his place and handed them to her, treating her to a wink as she left the booth.

— — —

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” Judith was hovering around the kitchen while Alastor worked, not doing much of anything but annoying him with her constant pestering.

 _If I wanted your help, I would’ve asked for it._ “Please, you’re a guest,” he told her yet again, waving her off. “Let me treat you, dear. It’s my pleasure.”

“If you insist. I suppose I’ll have to pay you back somehow later,” she purred, and Alastor suppressed a grimace of distaste. Sex appeal was the quickest and easiest method of seducing his prey, allowing them to think that his invitation to dinner would include access to his body, but the act did get tiresome after a while.

“Do that,” he answered nevertheless. “I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

“Oh.” Judith’s smile disappeared, and she stared with poorly-hidden disgust as Alastor added ¾ cup of solid lard to his cast-iron pan. “Is…that what you’re using to make your roux?”

“Is that a problem?” he asked pleasantly.

“No, of course not. I typically use butter, but to each his own, of course.” Still, the judgment on her face and in her voice was unmistakable.

“Actually!” Since they were no longer on air, he made less effort to keep his tone polite, smiling brightly as he explained, “Cajun and Creole cooking tend to employ darker rouxs than ‘traditional’ French cuisine. If you tried to use butter for this, you would end up with a burnt, bitter mess. Trust me, chèrie, I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course. I. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” It was clear she now realized that she was stepping on his toes and tried to amend herself. _It’s a bit late for that._

— — —

A few hours later, the two were seated at Alastor’s dining room table, and he was deeply enjoying not only his own meal but watching Judith eat hers. “God, this really is delicious,” she said for at least the second time, compromising her ladylike bearing to get another spoonful of andouille and rice into her mouth. That was the way food _should_ be enjoyed, as Alastor saw it: without restraint or concern for appearances. Still, he took his time with his own meal. After all, he had some exercise planned for later, and that would be harder to pull off on a full stomach.

“I’m so glad you approve,” he told his guest, his eyes lingering on her mouth as she lapped a drop of broth off her spoon. He might not have much interest in her body otherwise, but this was still a display he didn’t mind savoring. He watched while she emptied her bowl and then blanched in embarrassment as she realized how much and how quickly she’d eaten.

“Maybe I should’ve paced myself a little more,” she laughed, clearly flustered.

“Nonsense. If you enjoyed it that much, you’re welcome to have more.” He scooped up a bite from his own bowl to offer it to her.

“O-oh, that’s…very sweet, but I shouldn’t. I’m sure I’ve had too much already.”

“Don’t be silly, chère. This is a special night; it’s all right to indulge a little.” Leaning forward against the table, watching her expectantly, he insisted, “Say ‘ah.’” Though she seemed confused by his persistence, she gave in nevertheless and opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her another bite and letting her eyes fall closed to enjoy the moment through her other senses instead.

He coaxed her into having a few more spoonfuls from his bowl before she finally insisted she couldn’t eat another bite. “You poor thing.” He got up and ran his fingertips along her cheek, leading her to look up into his eyes. “Why don’t we get you into bed, hm?”

“Oh. I would like that,” Judith answered, her eyes lingering on his lips. He led her by her hand to his room, where she seated herself on the edge of the bed.

“I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.” He brushed his lips across her knuckles and left the room to clean things up in the kitchen, knowing full well that in the time he was gone, she would slip into a food coma and pass out. And later that night, the real fun would begin.

— — —

At precisely 3 a.m., Alastor slammed open the door to his bedroom, startling his sleeping prey awake and putting her into an immediately panic. “Wh-what—Alastor?” she stammered, squinting at him in the darkness. Every light in the house was off, but he expected she would get her bearings quickly when she saw him in the doorway and, more importantly, the glinting knife he was toying with.

“So sorry to cut your beauty sleep short, chère,” he said, making his way slowly across the room to lean against the bed’s footboard, “but I’m afraid I have an appetite you haven’t satisfied yet.”

“I…I don’t understand.” Her wide eyes shifted from his face to the knife, then back again as she slowly moved back against the wall.

“Well, I suggest you put the pieces together quickly. We’re already thirty seconds into your ten-minute head start.” Besides, he hated having to spell it out for them. The hunt was much more fun when animal instinct took over and they fled without bothering to ask questions. Luckily, Judith didn’t spend much longer looking to him for help and instead scrambled out of the bed to flee down the hall. To her credit, her first instinct was to look for her car keys where she’d left them at the door, but unfortunately for her, Alastor had anticipated that already. Dangling the keys from two fingers, he told her pleasantly, “Now, now, no cheating. You do want to enjoy this with me, don’t you?”

The woman let out something between a growl and a whimper and threw the door open to race outside, still barefoot and missing her jacket. Alastor checked his watch as he meandered down the same path she had taken to stand on the front porch and watch her hurry down the dirt road that led to his home. Sadly for dear Judith, it would take miles to lead anywhere else. Still, he was a man of his word and gave her the full ten minutes, shifting on his feet, idly tossing his knife and catching it again.

“Three.”

He could still see her silhouette, though faintly, on the moonlit road. Already his blood was rushing in his ears in anticipation.

“Two.”

It really would’ve been smarter for her to go through the woods. Not that he couldn’t have tracked her down still, but it would’ve shown a little intuition, at least. Regardless, this was shaping up to be a delightful chase.

“One.”

— — —

Alastor’s producer, Vincent Oxton, called him a week later when Judith didn’t show up for her first filming. “What the hell do you mean you don’t know where she is? You were the last one to see her!” he barked while Alastor held the phone a few inches from his ear.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Vince,” he said, reclining in his recording booth with a homemade lunch of boudin noir and mashed potatoes in front of him. “She seemed perfectly happy during the interview, but as far as I know, she left town that night.”

And that was that. He had known it was a bit of a risk to choose a target with some public standing, but since she was visiting from out of state, there were plenty of other ways she could have disappeared. Almost too easy, but it was enough to satisfy him for the moment.

At least, that was what he thought until he received another visitor after that day’s broadcast. When he got downstairs on his way out of the building, he found a slim figure of indeterminate gender waiting for him, presumably a fan. It was all he could do to keep up his smile as he realized exactly whom he was looking at. It wasn’t the blond hair with dark roots that tipped him off; it wasn’t the clearly-expensive suit or the haughty posture. What really gave his guest away was those narrow, dark brown eyes and intense brows, the same eyes that had been burned into Alastor’s mind when he was only a child: Enrico Ragni’s eyes.

Correction: _Antonia_ Ragni’s eyes. One of Enrico’s children. The two of them had never met in person before, but Alastor knew as much about the family as he could from outside observation. Enough to hate this intruder on sight.

Baring his teeth in a ‘smile’ that couldn’t possibly look friendly, he asked, “Can I help you?”

“Hopefully,” Antonia said with a half-smile. “Alastor, right? My name’s Angel. You’re in charge of programmin’ for your show, right?”

“For the most part.” Why was she using a pseudonym? In this town and many surrounding, one only had to mention a connection to the Ragnis in order to get practically anything they wanted. Alastor knew that all too well. “Why do you ask?”

“Well. I’m tryin’ to get into the music business, see? Singin’, I mean. I was hopin’ you might be able to help me get started.”

Silence for a moment. Surely if she wanted to sing, her father could buy her way into any studio she chose. So why start with a lowly local radio station instead? “I’m not sure why you need my help with that. I’m sure if you asked, your father would be happy to make it happen for you. Antonia.”

To his surprise, she went rigid and snarled, “ _Don’t_ fuckin’ call me that. I said my name’s Angel. My old man doesn’t know anything about this, and I plan to keep it that way. Look at me: y’think I wanna be some private lounge diva? I’m sayin’ I wanna get started as a _male_ singer—like Sinatra or Dean Martin, get it? My old man ain’t gonna go for that, so I need help from someone else who will. Are you willin’ to help me or not?”

That was an unexpected twist. Alastor considered for a moment. Any opportunity to spite Enrico Ragni—after everything he’d done to Alastor’s family—was sorely tempting. Even better if it came with the chance for such elusive and well-guarded prey. If Alastor could play this just right, Antonia (‘Angel,’ that is) would make a very promising target.

Crossing his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he asked casually, “What’s in it for me?”


	2. Apéritif

Angel raised an eyebrow, sizing up the radio host in front of him. He was sort of twiggy, smiling in a way that didn’t feel totally sincere, his posture rigid. He sure as hell didn’t _look_ like the kind of guy who’d trade favors for sex, but Angel had long since stopped being surprised that any man would use that as a bargaining chip. Running his fingers through the pale length of his hair, he batted his eyes and asked, “What’re you into, handsome?”

To his surprise, Alastor got even more tense, and although his smile didn’t fade, he still managed to look incredibly uncomfortable. “That is _not_ what I had in mind.”

“Well, what is?” Angel asked, immediately dropping his seduction angle. “I can pay ya if ya want, or I bet I could call in a couple favors here in town.”

“No thanks.”

“Then what do I hafta do?” he sighed, exasperated. “If there’s somethin’ you want, don’t make me waste time guessin’.”

“I want…food,” Alastor said plainly, and Angel’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Huh? You’re that hard-up ya can’t even get groceries?”

“That’s not what I said. I’m not talking about just any food. I understand your family estate features an impressive garden. You use it to supply your restaurants here in town. Right?”

“Yeah.” Where was he going with this? Sure, Angel’s family had a ton of property and a huge garden that had been growing since before he was even born, but why should Alastor care anything about that? “So?”

“So, I want a delivery from it every time you come here.”

“And then you’ll let me sing?” Angel asked, quickly brightening at that prospect.

“ _And_ ,” Alastor went on, holding up one hand as if to say _hold your horses_ , “I want copies of whatever Creole recipes you use in your restaurants.” That threw Angel for yet another loop.

“Why?”

“That’s not part of the deal, is it?” the radio host asked with another pleasant smile. “What matters is that if you provide all that for me, I’ll provide a period of time during my show for you to sing and a space wherein you’ll be treated as Angel rather than Ant—”

“Don’t.” He hated that Alastor even knew his birthname; he’d hoped he could avoid that association altogether by showing up in his suit and coat, hiding his curves and lowering his voice, but it was obvious Alastor knew who he was (or who his family thought he was) already. But if he was offering to treat him otherwise—well, that was better than anyone else had done so far. “All right, fine. I don’t think anyone’ll notice if a few vegetables go missin’, and I know where my old man keeps his recipes. I’ll get ‘em for you.” He offered his hand to seal the deal, but Alastor just looked at it with obvious disdain before walking past him to open the door.

“Be here tomorrow afternoon, then, and I’ll work you into my lineup. Assuming you hold up your end of the deal.”

As he was leaving the studio, Angel wondered exactly what he’d done to piss Alastor off so much. After all, most everyone in town talked about how friendly and charming the guy was, but he’d acted like he wanted nothing to do with Angel. _So why did he agree to it in the first place?_ And what the hell did he care about some vegetables and recipes? Maybe it shouldn’t have mattered, since Angel was getting what he wanted out of the deal, but he still couldn’t help wondering. And he kept wondering about what went on in Alastor’s head for the rest of the night.

— — —

So began Alastor’s first long-term hunt. True to his word, Angel showed up the following day with a scribbled-down recipe and a basket of fresh produce—tomatoes, okra, carrots, squash. It took a notable amount of willpower for Alastor to maintain his smile as he sorted carefully through the goods. Angel seemed utterly bemused by his reaction, but of course he wouldn’t understand. He probably wasn’t even aware of _whose_ garden his family—or their servants—now tended. That thought and the overwhelming anger that came with it very nearly forced him to chase Angel out of the studio or, better yet, kill him then and there.

But he took a deep breath and managed to calm himself despite his violent urges. A closer look at the recipe found exactly what he’d suspected: the damned Ragnis were passing off his mother’s work as their own. Just like her garden. Just like the tiny home he’d grown up in, which the Ragnis now used as a guest house. All the things that were rightfully his but had been stolen from him when he was only a child and unable to defend himself. _God **damn** Enrico Ragni!_

“Uh, Al?” Angel’s voice brought him back to the moment and very nearly provoked an instinctive attack—but when Alastor bristled, the bottle-blond quickly backed away. It was clear from the nervous look on his face that Alastor was doing a poor job of containing his emotions. He should’ve known it would be more difficult around one of _them_. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, tugging the ends of his vest down to straighten it and adjusting his glasses. _There we are. Perfectly fine._ “You kept your side of the deal, now I’ll keep mine.” After setting the basket and folded paper carefully aside, he slid back into his chair and reached for his headphones. “Look through the records there”—he indicated a cabinet to the left of his desk—“and tell me what you want to sing so I can introduce you.”

“Oh, uh, now?” All of a sudden, Angel seemed nervous, as if he weren’t the one to ask for this.

“When else? I thought that was why you came.”

“Sure, but I haven’t rehearsed or anything.”

“So you’ll learn to improvise,” Alastor insisted. “Surely I have something here that you know. You mentioned Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin—I have plenty of their background tracks. Just pick something.” He didn’t bother being his usual excessively gracious self with Angel as he would with any other guest. This boy was a Ragni, which made him inherently undeserving of Alastor’s patience. Besides, after being spoiled all his life, he could probably use some tougher treatment now. It was obvious he didn’t appreciate being spoken to this way, but he also realized that Alastor was doing him a favor. So he dropped his argument and picked out a record.

If he was totally honest, Alastor was hoping to see Angel trip over himself and get embarrassed. Even as he was introducing his ‘special guest’ and setting up an instrumental version of Dean Martin’s “Sway,” he was imagining Angel choking and running out, leaving him to apologize to his listeners for the disruption. _So much for a musical career._

As the music started to play and Angel sat across the desk in front of a microphone of his own, he was visibly controlling his breathing, eyes closed, mouth twisted into a nervous frown. _Bless his heart._ Then his cue came, he started to sing, and Alastor’s mouth nearly fell open.

Based on his speaking voice, one would not have guessed his singing would come out so smooth. Sure, it was more tenor than baritone, but his voice was still passably male, and more importantly, it was perfectly in key. Alastor was torn between cursing and listening raptly, but he quickly settled on the latter. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until an instrumental break came and Angel glanced in his direction with a playful grin of his own. Alastor quickly looked away, sternly ordering his blood not to rush to his cheeks. A blush wouldn’t show drastically against his skin tone, but it was the principle of the matter that bothered him. He would _not_ develop any sort of interest in a Ragni child other than looking forward to watching the light leave his eyes.

— — —

Angel himself was a little shocked at how well this whole radio thing was going. He started listening to Alastor’s broadcasts every day, and within the first week or two since his ‘debut,’ he heard people call in to ask about him and when he’d be back. Fans! He had actual, real live fans! That in itself was enough to encourage him to keep going back, no matter how many not-so-subtle dirty looks Alastor gave him.

Alastor, unfortunately, was proving to be a little harder to win over. Angel had caught him staring that first day, and he’d looked a little starstruck. And the more time Angel spent at the studio, the more he listened and appreciated Alastor’s showmanship, the more interested he was in getting to know him better. But every time he tried to flirt, Alastor refused to engage him, either ignoring his teasing comments completely or shutting them down with a cold smile. None of that was enough to discourage him, of course. And besides, every now and again when he sang, he would steal a look in Alastor’s direction and catch him watching with that same fascinated look on his face, so he figured there must be _some_ interest there that Al just didn’t want to act on. Maybe he wasn’t into guys? Or just didn’t want to admit that he was?

If only things at home could’ve gone as smoothly as they did at the studio. But no, Angel’s family was still every bit as stubborn and unsupportive about the whole situation with his gender, and it wore on him more and more every day. He’d go to the studio, bring Alastor his delivery from the garden and yet another piece of his family’s surprisingly large collection of Creole recipes (where the hell did they all come from, anyway?), he would spend an hour or so savoring being called by his preferred name and treated like a man—and then he’d have to change out of his suit and back into a dress before heading home; if his old man had caught him in pinstripes instead of polka dots, he would’ve had a fit.

Angel tried hard to hold onto the positive feelings that came with his visits to the studio, but there was no pretending that this double-life of his wasn’t just making keeping his secret harder. Now that he’d seen how good it felt to be treated right, his family’s abuse stung that much more.

— — —

For a while, Alastor succeeded in pretending not to notice the decline in Angel’s mood. It was none of his business what went on in the Ragni boy’s head anyway. As long as Angel continued delivering the stolen fruits of his mother’s labor (no pun intended), Alastor could care less whether he was happy.

That is, until he stopped singing.

“You ‘don’t feel up to it’? What does that mean?” Alastor asked, fighting a frown as he processed the news.

“I’m just not feelin’ my best lately,” Angel said with a weak shrug. And to be honest, he didn’t look his best either. His clothing was pristine as usual, but he was pale and withdrawn, listless, even shaking slightly. “Can I still stay for a while, though? I won’t bug you or anything; I just…don’t wanna go back home.”

“If you aren’t planning to sing, I’m not sure there’s any reason for you to be here.” True as that might be, seeing the abject sorrow all over Angel’s face forced Alastor to amend himself: “But as long as you’re quiet, I guess it can’t hurt anything.”

As it turned out, Angel didn’t need to speak in order to serve as a significant distraction. He sat across from Alastor, leaning against the desk between them, listening contentedly with closed eyes and a smile on his face. Despite seeming a bit more relaxed now, he was obviously still unwell. And that bothered Alastor. What good was a hunt if his prey was already weakened? It felt like cheating in a way, like he was being deprived of the full experience. And with such a rare target, he couldn’t stand for that.

“Have you not been eating?” he asked plainly during another break, and Angel seemed taken aback by the question. His eyes quickly darted away from Alastor’s, which was a clear enough answer.

“Sure I have.”

“What about sleeping? Or generally taking care of yourself otherwise? You look exhausted.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Angel,” Alastor insisted, and the blond bit his lip at the sound of his name. He’d already made it clear that he had something of a crush on Alastor, so it should be easy enough to press that angle and make him talk. Reaching across the desk to stroke his hand softly, Alastor tried again in a gentler tone, “I don’t like seeing you at less than your best, cher. If something’s wrong, please, tell me what it is.”

It was obvious from Angel’s wide eyes and the weak blush on his cheeks that he was falling for this little act like a ton of bricks. “It’s just. Things just ain’t great at home. I been spendin’ most of my time in my room lately so I don’t hafta deal with my old man.”

“Your family still isn’t happy with your, er, transition?” They’d discussed this before, but it seemed like such an inconsequential thing to fixate on.

“That’s puttin’ it lightly. Molly’s the only one who even tries, and the rest of ‘em don’t give a shit.” Angel’s voice had taken on a surprisingly acrid tone, his sullen frown twisting into a furious snarl. “I’m so goddamn tired of it. I’m tired of that fuckin’ house. I’m tired of all the people in it. I wish they’d all just fuckin’—”

“Die?” Alastor supplied helpfully.

“You said it, not me.” Still, the fact that he didn’t argue was interesting.

“Well, it sounds to me like you should be spending more time here.”

“What?” Angel looked up in visible surprise.

“If you’re so miserable at home that it’s affecting your health, why not be here where you’re respected instead?” _Respected! What a laugh._ “If you’re lucky, I might even make you lunch. I do have plenty to share lately, thanks to you.”

“I mean, I’d love that,” Angel confessed, “but Al…why’re you bein’ so nice to me? I’m not complainin’ or anything! I just thought ya didn’t really like me.”

It was a fair question, one Alastor thought he knew the answer to until he actually took a moment to consider. It would be easiest to gain Angel’s trust and get him alone if he pretended to be concerned for his well-being. _You catch more flies with honey and all that._ But he could’ve expressed concern without inviting Angel to spend more time hanging around the studio. He certainly didn’t have to offer to feed him.

Was it possible some subconscious part of his mind actually _wanted_ Angel there? No. Absolutely not. Yes, his singing was lovely. Yes, it was nice to not spend all day every day completely alone in the studio. But that didn’t change what he was: a Ragni. A victim. Prey. That was it. 

“My listeners have gotten fond of you,” Alastor explained casually, sitting back in his chair to put more distance between them. “So if you were to stop singing, I’m sure they would be bothered. It’s all business, you see.”

“Sure, Al.” The knowing smirk on Angel’s lips was maddening in more ways than one. “Whatever you say.”


	3. Entrée

“Shit.” Angel combed his hair down over the left side of his face again as he made his way briskly across town toward the studio. It had been a few months since he and Alastor had first made their deal, and he’d felt like things were going really well between them—and now this.

When he got inside and approached the recording booth to get Alastor’s attention, the radio host went wide-eyed at the sight of him and quickly cut to a commercial break. He yanked his headphones off and rushed to the door, his face a mix of frustration and relief.

“Where have you been?” he hissed. “It’s been over two weeks! You never even called; I had no idea what had happened!” As guilty as Angel felt for leaving him in the dark, it was awfully cute to see him so concerned.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to come, believe me, but my old man wouldn’t let me outta the house,” he explained.

“Wouldn’t let you? What do you—” He paused as he caught sight of the bruise on Angel’s left cheek. Before Angel could stop him, Alastor pushed blond hair aside to reveal a slowly-healing black eye, and the anger immediately disappeared from his face. “Oh, cher.”

“He found out you were lettin’ me sing,” Angel said quietly, embarrassed beyond belief at having Al see him like this—not only beat up but dressed in a fucking skirt. “And he was pissed I went behind his back. Only reason he let me out today was cuz Molly said we were goin’ together.”

“When you said things weren’t the best at home, I didn’t realize you meant this.” Alastor’s fingertips slid lightly up Angel’s cheek to comb through his hair.

“Um. I’m…sorry I didn’t bring anything this time.” Struggling to focus past the excitement that came with Alastor’s touch, he clarified, “From the garden, I mean. I wanted to, but—”

“Don’t worry about that.” It seemed like Alastor was inspecting him a lot closer than usual, but the look in his eyes wasn’t one Angel recognized. Finally, he continued, “Come home with me tonight, cher. Let me take care of you.”

“Al, I can’t.” There was a hint of a whine in Angel’s voice. Of course he _wanted_ to go home with Alastor! He’d wanted it for weeks! But right now, it was dangerous. “If my old man finds out I ran off, he’s gonna kill me.”

“Please, Angel.” Lowering his voice slightly, leaning in to rest his forehead against Angel’s, the radio host insisted, “You’ve been locked up and miserable for two weeks, suffering in that house full of people you hate. You deserve at least one night to be comfortable. I’ll take care of everything: we’ll have dinner, you can spend the night, and if there’s anything else I can do to comfort you”—their eyes met, and his voice had the air of a promise—“I will.”

God, how was it just his voice and one look from those eyes could make Angel’s knees weak? This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten hot and bothered over Alastor’s attention, but it _was_ the first time Al himself had suggested acting on those feelings. How was he supposed to resist?

“Okay,” he agreed, a little breathless already. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good.” Alastor grinned and kissed his cheek, then went back to his seat at the desk. “Just let me finish up for the day and we’ll be going.”

_I can’t wait._

— — —

For the rest of the day, Alastor was buzzing with excitement of one kind or another. After Angel had disappeared for all that time, he’d been worried he might have missed his chance to pounce—but no, in fact, those two weeks apart had actually helped his cause. And now Angel was happily accompanying him home, looking forward to a night of intimacy and pleasure. Well, he would get one of the two, at least.

“I’ll get started on dinner,” Alastor said as they stepped inside his home. “In the meantime, why don’t you have a hot bath, cher? I’m sure it’ll help you relax.” And, more importantly, it would provide him time to prepare.

“That sounds nice.” Angel stood up on his toes to kiss Alastor’s cheek, then followed his directions to the bathroom. While he was gone, Alastor made sure his room was in order (including the leather restraints under his bed), put away anything that could be used as a weapon against him, and hid his car keys before finally going to the kitchen to start dinner.

Tonight was a night for jambalaya, he decided. It would take a little more doing, but he was sure Angel would appreciate the effort. Not that it mattered to him. This was all for his own enjoyment more than anything.

Some time after he’d started cooking, Angel surprised him by joining him in the kitchen and stepping in close to wrap his arms around Alastor’s waist. He only just managed to keep from jerking away by shocked instinct and instead chided, “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that, cher.”

“Sorry. Whatcha makin’?” His guest did seem to be in a much better mood now as he came to stand at Alastor’s side and peer into the pot where their dinner was simmering. Before he could answer, Alastor went rigid once again as he realized that instead of putting his own clothes back on after his bath, Angel had taken one of _his_ dress shirts. And he wasn’t wearing pants underneath, leaving his long legs bare and his hips barely covered. He must have noticed Alastor’s staring, as he grinned mischievously. “Whatsamatter, Al? You said you wanted me to be comfortable, right? I feel way more like myself in this than in that shit I was wearin’ earlier.”

“Ahem. Right. It’s fine, you just…surprised me,” he muttered, quickly turning his eyes back toward the stove. None of his other victims had been quite this forward in their desire for him; Angel’s overtly sexual nature made it harder for Alastor to stay in control of that aspect of the conversation. “Oh, you asked what I’m making. It’s jambalaya. My mother’s recipe.”

“Smells amazing,” Angel sighed. “I’m shit at cookin’, so it’s pretty much all like magic to me. Hey, but if you had your mom’s recipe, why’d you want my old man’s?”

“…you’d be surprised how similar the two are.” Oh, he planned to explain the full situation later, once this whole ruse was over and Angel understood what his fate would be. But now wasn’t the time.

Once they sat down to dinner, the night went more as expected. Angel was rightfully astounded by his cooking and made no secret of it, humming and moaning with delight as he ate. “Fuck, that’s good,” he laughed, covering his mouth for a moment. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“My mother taught me when I was young, and I’ve been using her recipes ever since. I’m glad you like it.”

“I’ll say. This is better than anything my family’s chefs ever make.”

_Of course it is. They weren’t taught by the recipes’ creator how to do it right._ “You’re too kind, cher.”

“Please, like you don’t know how good you are,” Angel said with a roll of his eyes. He took another bite of okra and spiced broth, licking his lips, nudging Alastor’s heart rate a bit higher. There was something so satisfying in knowing that Angel was enjoying the food he’d worked so hard to make, that he acknowledged it as being better than his own family’s version.

Once they’d finished their meal, he took their bowls back to the kitchen to retrieve their final course. “I do have one more little treat for you,” he said, bringing over a bowl of dark chocolate and cream he’d had warming on the stove.

“There’s more? Al, you’re really spoilin’ me tonight,” Angel cooed, watching in dreamy admiration as he brought back a bowl of strawberries from the icebox.

“I think you deserve it, after what you’ve been through lately.” _And considering this is your last meal._ The strawberries were small and he’d already hulled them, so after dipping one in the chocolate, he offered the whole thing to Angel. Though he blushed slightly, the blond hardly seemed bashful as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth to accept it. Alastor placed the strawberry on his tongue, enjoying the pleasant contrast of bright red on pink and the low whimper Angel let out from the taste.

“Good?” he asked, finding his voice a bit husky from the excitement of watching his guest eat.

“Mm-hm.” Angel nodded firmly, allowing Alastor to feed him a second strawberry. “Ya want one?” He dipped another in chocolate and held it out. “Ah.”

Oh. Alastor had never been on this side of the equation before. Some part of him said it was wrong in a way, that he was supposed to be the one instigating—yet another part found the novelty (and the smell of warm chocolate) too tempting to resist. So he snapped up the strawberry, and Angel jerked his hand back with a yelp. While Alastor was enjoying the cold tartness and sweet warmth filling his mouth, he realized that he’d gotten a bit overzealous and bitten Angel’s fingers along with the treat.

“Jeez, Al,” his guest whined, cradling his bleeding hand. “Ya weren’t supposed to take a bite outta me too.”

“Sorry,” he lied automatically, reaching for Angel’s hand and bringing it back to his lips to lick the remaining blood off his fingers. A nice addition of salt to the sweetness coating his tongue.

“Um. It’s okay,” Angel mumbled, watching with rapt attention as Alastor’s tongue moved against his skin.

When Alastor finally realized he might be going a bit too far—after all, he obviously had Angel enthralled already, so this wasn’t necessary to his act—he hastily stopped himself and released his guest’s hand. “Ahem. You should…have another, cher. I wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”

Angel helped himself to another strawberry, then another, then simply dipped his fingertips into the bowl. “Oops,” he said innocently, licking one finger clean and sucking the last of the chocolate off it while Alastor watched with wide eyes. “See somethin’ ya like, honey?”

“I…” How was he supposed to respond to this? In most of these situations, it was simple enough for him to keep up his act and manipulate his victim into doing exactly what he wanted, because he himself had no desires mixed up in the exchange. But this time? Something was different. Very different. Watching Angel lap bittersweet chocolate off his own fingers, sitting very still in his chair, he found himself eager to indulge in that same sort of sensual pleasure…or maybe a somewhat different sort.

“Hm. I guess I shoulda realized you liked food this much, the way you’re always talkin’ about it. But I still wouldn’t’ve figured you were that kinky.”

That brought Alastor out of his haze of desire somewhat. “Excuse me?”

“Hey, it’s not a big deal,” Angel said, leaning against the table and watching him sympathetically. “Lots of people get turned on by weirder stuff.”

_‘Turned on’?_ That was absolutely not what he was feeling. Sensory pleasure didn’t have to be sexual, and it never had been for him before. Of course, Angel’s immediate conclusion would be to assume there was only one way to enjoy another person’s body.

Not that Alastor was enjoying Angel’s body to begin with! He wasn’t. Angel was the one twisting the situation to his own distasteful desires. “Whatever you’re suggesting, you’re wrong,” Alastor said stiffly, fighting the instinct to bare his teeth.

“Hey, I’m just callin’ it like I see it. I mean”—getting up from his seat, Angel leaned forward against the table and ran his fingertips slowly down Alastor’s chest—“you sure _seem_ like you’re gettin’ excited just from watchin’ me eat.” When his hand moved down further still, Alastor was forced to realize that he was much more sensitive to the touch than usual and— _oh God_ —his body was, in fact, incredibly aroused already.

Panicked, horrified, he caught sight of the knowing smirk on Angel’s face and lashed out without thinking, pouncing on his guest to knock him to the ground. “You are infuriating,” he snarled, hands curled tightly around Angel’s throat.

Tilting his head back, the blond moaned, “Harder…”

“Wh—no! Stop that!” Alastor snapped, yanking his hands back as if scalded and trying to control the spike of his heart rate. “What do you think this is? Some kind of tryst? I brought you here to kill you, you idiot!”

Angel’s dark eyes blinked a little wider. “What?”

“And then put you in my next batch of gumbo,” Alastor added with relish. “You’ve been feeding me so well for months, cher; why should you stop now?”

“But…I thought…”

“You thought wrong. You’re nothing but a meal to me.” Maybe if he said it aloud he would believe it himself.

After a moment more of staring up at him in shock and confusion, Angel raised an eyebrow and said playfully, “Oh, I get it. That’s why you’re attracted to me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Al, you’ve obviously got some kinda food kink,” Angel continued, sitting up on his elbows. “So if that’s what you see when ya look at me, it’s no wonder ya don’t know whether to eat me or fuck me.”

Thoroughly unnerved by that reasoning, the language used to express it, and the fully confident look on Angel’s face, Alastor hastily backed away from him. Just when he’d thought he was in control of the situation again, he’d been thrown for yet another loop. And now Angel was crawling closer on his hands and knees, smiling like this was all totally normal.

“I can tell ya right now, you’ll have a lot more fun with me like this,” he purred, sliding one hand down the inside of Alastor’s thigh to stroke between his legs. He was still every bit as hard as before, and Angel’s attention had him losing his breath in moments. He should’ve been furious, should’ve hated being distracted from his original plans. But right now, his mind was very quickly being overtaken by heated friction pushing out all thoughts other than how much he wanted more. “Mm, you got it bad, baby. You sure you wanna deal with it all by yourself?”

That was a very good point. He was nothing short of mortified to have to ask, but what choice did he have? He had little to no idea how to handle it himself, and stranger still: he _wanted_ to spend all this desire on Angel. “Then…help me.”

“Maybe I will if you ask real nice,” Angel answered, still stroking him through his slacks. “Say please.”

Alastor jerked away, indignant. Was he not being pushed enough? Was his pride not already nearing its breaking point? And was Angel pushing harder with the _intent_ to break him? “No.”

“You sure? I can make it a lot easier.” When he didn’t answer, Angel shrugged. “I mean, if it’s that important to you…” To Alastor’s shock and horror, he got up and took a step back, crossing his arms. If he was aroused, there was no way to know it by looking at him, and he seemed totally nonchalant as he went on, “Now where’d I put my stuff?” He couldn’t leave now, not when Alastor was already so compromised and lost. The very thought was panic-inducing.

“Wait!”


	4. Dessert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for transphobia, discussion of pregnancy

Just like Angel wanted, Alastor scrambled to his feet and grabbed Angel’s wrist roughly, yanking him backward to shove his back against the edge of the table. He was obviously trying to get back in control of the situation, but as he pressed closer and his hips ground into Angel’s, the choked whimper he let out said he really didn’t know how to take the lead. Still, he tried to keep his tough-guy act up anyway. “Give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

Even after his big confession (which Angel believed every word of), it was hard to be scared of him at this point. “I can give you a few.” He took Alastor’s hands and dragged them down to rest on his ass, drawing a shocked gasp from his lips. Then he hooked one leg around his host’s hip, pulling him close so his hardness pressed against the heat between Angel’s legs. Lifting his head to run his tongue along Alastor’s ear, he moaned, “Go ahead, honey, don’t be shy.”

After a split-second of hesitation, Alastor shifted and ground against him, coaxing a deep groan of desire from them both. It only took him a second to figure out a rhythm as he steadied his hands against the table’s edge and worked his hips against Angel’s, quickly starting to lose his breath again. With only the thin layer of his underwear to cover him, Angel was forced to feel every moment of friction, and it had him heating up fast too. He’d never been with anyone so eager for every new sensation—and he’d slept with more than a few guys. Something about Alastor was just so patently different in a weirdly endearing way.

“It’s better once ya actually get inside, y’know,” he snickered, enjoying the powerful shiver that coursed through Alastor’s body. “Just say the magic word and you can have it.” Maybe he was using this as a kind of test, trying to figure out whether carrying on some kind of relationship with a murderer was really a good idea. If he could get Alastor to bend, if he could keep control over the moment, then maybe this had a chance of working out. Maybe he had some kind of weakness for Angel and wouldn’t actually hurt him.

“Mph.” Alastor stubbornly refused to answer and shoved his hips roughly against Angel’s again so the sharp edge of the table dug into his back. He let out another high-pitched moan of pleasure and pain—and Alastor moaned back in response. _Oh, so that’s what he likes._

“Al…” Angel played up the breathless tone of his voice, working his fingers through dark hair and practically begging himself, “Say it for me. Don’t you want me? Don’t you wanna see how good I can make ya feel?”

“Yes,” Alastor confessed, helpless.

“Then prove it, baby. Say it and I’ll take good care of you all night.” If he was honest, Angel was getting pretty turned on by all this playful dirty talk himself. He leaned down for a kiss and could still taste rich chocolate on Alastor’s tongue from their dessert. And just like every other touch he’d initiated so far, Alastor accepted it ravenously, delving deeper into Angel’s mouth and making a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan. Fuck, what was it about all this roughness that was so hot? By the time the kiss ended, it seemed like his willpower had broken altogether.

“Please,” he breathed between sharp bites down Angel’s throat. “Help me…get his out of my system.”

_Good boy._ “You got it, baby.” Having gotten what he wanted, Angel took Alastor’s hand and dragged him to the bedroom to shove him down on the bed. Even though he was pretty sure Al would’ve fucked him right there on the table if he allowed it, this would make things easier. He crawled up to kneel over Alastor’s hips and ground down against them while working at getting his host’s shirt unbuttoned.

“Is that necessary?” Alastor asked, though he wasn’t really fighting. His hands kept a tight hold on Angel’s hips, dragging them down to keep up the hot friction with his own.

“Nah, but I like it better this way. Dontcha want me to like it?”

“I… Yes?” The answer seemed sincere, even though Alastor was apparently confused by it. This was all obviously really new to him, so maybe that made sense.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna keep ya waitin’ too much longer.” Angel stripped out of his borrowed shirt but hesitated to take off his bandeau; he didn’t want Alastor seeing his tits and thinking of him as a woman.

“What are you—?” Al started to complain about the hold-up but seemed to realize that he was genuinely nervous. He sat up so they were real close and kissed Angel’s lips again, a lot softer this time. While he was thoroughly distracting Angel with his tongue, he pulled his hands down away from his chest so their bodies could press even closer together. His hand slid slowly up Angel’s bare spine, sending a chill through him—but he broke away when Alastor’s fingers brushed the clasp of his bandeau. “Don’t look so nervous, cher. I know about this already. It doesn’t stop me from wanting you.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “I guess.” Alastor’s smile widened, and he unhooked the too-tight binder to strip it off and toss it aside. Then his mouth worked hotly down Angel’s collarbone and chest with kisses and licks and bites, quickly stealing his breath and leaving little marks all over him.

“You know,” Alastor mused, pausing to run his tongue along the curves of Angel’s chest. “When I was planning on getting a mouthful of you, this isn’t exactly how I pictured it going.”

Despite how dark the humor was, Angel couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, but this way you can enjoy it more than once.” He shoved his host down by his shoulders and quickly unfastened his pants to pull out his erection. By reflex, Angel wet his lips at the sight. “Mm, maybe I’m still a little hungry myself.” He started to bend down to use his mouth, but Alastor caught his chin to stop him.

“That’s not what I want, and you know it.” It sounded like he was making an effort to keep his tone even, but there was still a hint of a growl underneath it. “Do it properly, cher.”

“I mean, if you’re that impatient,” Angel laughed, squirming out of his underwear before positioning himself back over Alastor’s hips. A chill of excitement rushed through him as Alastor’s cock slid between his legs and he bucked his hips upward.

“Angel…” That almost sounded like a warning—like if he didn’t hurry up, Alastor might change his mind about killing him—so Angel figured it was time to stop teasing. He pressed his hips downward so it could slide in and shuddered as he settled down to take every inch.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he groaned, bracing his hands against Alastor’s chest and grinding down harder. When he chanced a look at his host—his partner? _Whatever_ —Al’s eyes were hazy, his expression a little dazed. _Poor guy. His first time and he gets someone like me; it’s probably a lot to handle._ “You okay, honey?”

“Y-yes,” he answered, shifting and grasping Angel’s thighs restlessly. “I’m fine. Keep going.” So much for giving orders; he was practically begging now. But it was cute seeing him want it so bad. Angel rewarded his eagerness by starting up a slow rhythm with his hips, up and back down, in and back out. He’d be lying if he said this was all for Al’s benefit, though. Pretty soon, he was picking up his pace, panting into the still air, moaning out loud since he knew no one else was around.

“You’re… This is…” Alastor was obviously having a hard time stringing words together, digging his nails into Angel’s skin and groaning with every roll of his hips. “ _Oh_ , Angel…”

“I like the sound of that, baby,” Angel purred back. When Alastor looked up at him in bleary confusion, he clarified, “My name. Say it again?” He dropped his full weight to let Alastor go as deep as possible, practically forcing him to obey.

“Angel!”

“Again,” the blond panted, riding Alastor’s hips faster and enjoying the helpless pleasure written all over his face.

“Angel—mon dieu—Angel…! Don’t stop, cher. I’m…”

_Close already?_ Well, that made sense if it was his first time. He’d just better be ready to go again until Angel was satisfied. So Angel kept up his quick pace while Al’s moaning got more frequent, more desperate, until he finally bucked upward and came with a rough, growling groan. Angel kept his hips grinding slowly, shivering from the rush of heat that filled him. When he leaned down for a kiss, Alastor met him with shocking passion, threading both hands through his hair to hold him close.

The only word out of his mouth when he broke away was, “More.” Angel didn’t need to be told twice.

— — —

It was an hour or two later when they both finally collapsed against the bed, fighting to catch their breath, thoroughly satisfied. “Fuck,” Angel laughed airily, “that was good.”

“‘Good’ feels like an understatement,” Alastor chuckled, pulling him close and biting his neck for the umpteenth time. By this point, he was used to it and barely flinched as Al’s canines broke his skin. He even enjoyed the feeling of Alastor’s tongue against the wound.

“You promise you’re not still tryin’ to eat me? Just little by little?” he teased.

“Not at this point. You _are_ delicious, but I think I’d rather have you at my table than on it.” And the gentleness in his touch, the softness behind his kisses said he really meant it. Even though Angel wasn’t really afraid of him to begin with, it was still nice to have some reassurance. “You will join me for dinner again, won’t you?”

“Course I will. Especially if this is what I can expect for dessert.”

“Assuming you can be patient until our company leaves.”

“Company?” Angel repeated, pulling away a little to look at him. “Whaddaya mean?”

“You’ll want to invite Molly over, I’m sure,” Alastor said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That way we can explain the situation to her and she can help us deal with your father.”

“Uh.” They hadn’t talked about all that. What exactly did he have in mind?

“You were the one who said you wanted everyone in that house dead,” Alastor reminded him. “And I’ve wanted the same thing for years, so I think it’s about time we make it happen. Other than Molly, of course, since you’re so fond of her.”

Angel was silent for a few seconds, slowly letting his head rest on Alastor’s shoulder as he tried to figure out what the hell he’d gotten himself into. “My whole family?” he said quietly. Sure, he’d said he wouldn’t mind if they snuffed it, but knocking them off himself? He wasn’t sure he was prepared for that.

“Most of them, yes. But you’ll still have your sister—and you’ll have me. We’ll start a new family. Considering how things have gone tonight, I’d be surprised if we haven’t already.” Alastor’s lighthearted chuckle did nothing to stop Angel’s blood from running cold. “Come to think of it, you have the twin gene, so we might even be in for a twofer.” He planted a kiss in Angel’s hair and relaxed against his pillow, totally content while Angel’s mind was practically collapsing on itself.

_What the fuck kind of thing is that to say?_ Alastor had never mentioned anything about kids. All these future plans he was making were really sudden. And even more disturbing: if he wanted to get Angel pregnant, did that mean… _Did he never see me as a man to begin with? Is he just as bad as my family?_ Maybe he had just been pretending all this time for Angel’s sake, just trying to get him alone so he could kill him. Well, that obviously hadn’t gone exactly the way he planned. But what did it mean for them now? If Alastor didn’t see him for who he was, they couldn’t possibly stay together. But he talked like it was a done deal, like Angel no longer had the option of leaving.

_Fuck._

“Hey, Al?”

“Hm?”

Looking up to meet his eyes, searching for some kind of reassurance, Angel asked, “Is that family thing somethin’ you want? I mean. A partner. Kids. Love and all that. Is that somethin’ you’ve ever wanted?”

“Before? No. Now? Maybe.” With a devious grin and a wink, he added, “ _Baby._ ”

Angel rolled his eyes and sat up to bite his lip, which quickly turned into a violent kiss while Alastor laughed at his response. Pinning him down against the bed, the brunet broke away just long enough to tell him evenly, “I can say without a doubt that I want _you_ , Angel. That’s what I know.”

And that was more than most anyone else could say. For the moment, Angel figured he could call it even.


End file.
